


Battle Fever

by LadyNimrodel



Series: What Treasure Hobbits Desire [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bilbo is a voyer, I have no excuse for this, M/M, Shameless Smut, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:42:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3791899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNimrodel/pseuds/LadyNimrodel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo does not intend to watch but even for all the comfort of Bag End, he can not look away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battle Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Bilbo also might have a thing for Thorin's hair. Maybe. Most likely.

It is called Battle-Fever.

At least, that is what Dwalin mumbles when Kili innocently asks where Thorin disappeared to. The company is safe behind the walls of Beorn the Skin-changer’s home, night a heavy cloak of silence shrouding the windows. Shadows cling to the corners and outside loud howls and screeches of orcs echo in the distance. The others have hunkered down in the straw, tired faces pale in the thin, muffled moonlight that slinks uneasily into the large house. Or barn. Bilbo is not quite sure. Perhaps it is both. He can not settle though. Their brief tangle with the handful of orcs (only scouts thankfully) during their flight is still jangling in his nerves. 

Bilbo glances at his companions with some resentment. 

They are all just so calm about it. First shedding blood then the hair-raising flight through the wilderness before finding shelter in a house of a host who may or may not eat them when he finally returned. And the dwarves are acting like they had just dodged a rainstorm rather than gruesome death. Bilbo thought that, after the trolls and facing down the pale orc who would have killed Thorin, he would be used to this harrowing, near death existence his companions seem so comfortable with. But where they mill calmly around the darkened room, laying out their bedrolls and sharing cold, dried provisions, Bilbo wants to pace and jitter and shout. He is positively bursting with nervous energy, like a thousands of Gandalf’s fire-poppers going off under his skin. 

Instead of running mad, however, Bilbo sits on a bale of hay with his arms around his legs and his cheek pillowed against his knees. His hands shake even though he has clasped them tightly together and his left foot taps anxiously against the straw. Even the sight of the dwarves eating their, abet cold, dinner does not move him. So disturbed is he, there is no room in his belly for anything but anxiety. And him a Hobbit! 

Behind him one of the oxen shift in their stalls, huffing quietly and it’s all Bilbo can do not to leap out of his poor skin. Thankfully, none of the others notice. He does not think he can bear any teasing tonight. Gandalf is saying something softly to Balin, their heads together like two white moons stranded in the darkness. He wonders if they are talking about the questionable hospitality of their unwilling host but he can not hear them from where he sits. It only serves to make him even more impatient. 

It is not until he hears Kili’s query about their leader and Dwalin’s short, quiet answer that Bilbo can unravel from himself. 

Indeed, even as he glances around the company, there is no sign of Thorin. 

Under the jittery nerves, something very much like burning curiosity lifts it’s ugly head. Battle-fever? Is Thorin sick? But no, Bilbo thinks a moment later, the others wouldn’t have just shared a knowing look and turned back to their sad dinners. Not one brow held a hint of worry. In fact, he’s almost sure he can see Fili’s lips quirk upwards in amusement when Kili turns to him and says something Bilbo can’t hear. 

The nervous energy settles itself in his limbs and he stands from his hay bale. No one but Dwalin notices, though Bilbo is looking into the shadows and does not know he has an observer. But the eyes slide away from him a moment later when he takes a step backwards and becomes just another shadow. The darkness cloaks his shoulders and dims the light of his auburn hair and he can slip away from the company with no one the wiser. Bilbo is careful not to look back as he pads his way along the wall, deeper and deeper into the house. 

He misses the looks traded between Dwalin and his brother. 

The house bigger than he first believed, the barn-like space stretching back and back until the murmurs from his friends have disappeared and he is alone in silence. Once, a sharp laugh from Fili makes him jump but after a quick look over his shoulder reveals nothing but shadows and the rump of a sleeping pony, he continues on. To the end of the barn-like space and through a dark hall with ceilings that disappear into the darkness above his head. The wood under his feet is free from straw here and he moves as silently as a breath, fingers running along the smooth wood of the walls. He can see but little, shadows of unlit sconces high over his head sliding by as he walks. There’s windows set between each sconce but the moon is on the other side of the building and offers little light. 

But he finds that matters not. 

Because at the end of the hall spills dim, silvery light and he is drawn irrevocably towards it, though he can not say why. Footsteps silent, he sidles up to the open doorway and peers carefully into the room. 

And what he finds steals his very breath. 

The room is of medium size, circular in shape, with seven windows in the roof that allow the cold, silver light from the moon to fill the space like water floods a pitcher. The floor here is wide flags of stone and soft fur skins are laid down to give the space warmth. A big chair sits at the other end of the room, covered in more skins, all of them soft and white, ghostly in the pale light. But Bilbo does not care about all of that. 

How can he, when his gaze has been arrested by the figure occupying the middle of the room. 

Thorin is lying stretched out, sprawled upon the fur skins, on display for anyone who might chance into the room. Like Bilbo has. His outer layers, armor and leathers and long coat with the fur collar, are piled on the floor near his elbow, dark lumps against the white of the skins. The only clothes left on his body is a dark shirt that may be blue but which looks grey in the strange light and dark trousers. Trousers that have been unlaced and pushed impatiently down lean hips. A smooth slope of skin has been exposed, from belly to thigh, gleaming softly with a sheen of sweat. And from a wild thatch of black hair between two strong thighs juts Throin’s cock, hard as a diamond.

Bilbo bites the inside of his lip to still his own visceral reaction.

Oh, who knew this mis-placed prince, this dark, brooding son of Durin, could be so beautiful?

Handsome, yes, regal, most certainly. But beautiful was never a word Bilbo thought to associate with Thorin, son of Thrain. 

Like this, though. Oh like this. With his back arched as his strong hand strokes down then slowly back up again. His thick (oh it is so thick and it makes Bilbo’s mouth water hungrily) cock is wet at the tip so it glistens. Broad shoulders press into the fur skins and the thick column of Thorin’s throat is exposed, shiny with sweat here too. With his head tossed back like this his face is mostly hidden, which Bilbo finds an absolute tragedy (how he would like to see what expressions this king makes as pleasure sparks and rolls through his body), but the way all that hair looks, like spilled ink against the white fur, almost makes up for it. His hair, oh his hair. Songs could be written about that hair. Thick and black and long, curling and catching on the fur as it spreads around Thorin’s head. It begs for hands to twist in its depths, to hold, to stroke, to pull. Strands stick to his forehead when he tosses his head at a particularly slow stroke and Bilbo’s knees go weak.

He does not know where to look and his greedy gaze takes in all of it; spread thighs, thick, heavy prick leaving wetness behind on Thorin’s fist with every upstroke, sweat slick skin, hair like midnight spread around like the skies have spilled onto the floor. And the more he looks, the more he wants, oh how he wants, wants to lick, touch, take, take, take. 

Distantly, he is aware how arousal has pooled low in his belly and how his own trousers strain hopelessly over his own hardness. Even his hands shake with desire. But he can almost forget all that because Thorin keeps making those little hitching sounds that makes Bilbo think of distant thunder and completion. 

It must feel so good. Each slow drag of a patient hand upwards pulls sharp, desperate breaths from that deliciously bared throat, the sounds shaky as they spill forth. Even as Bilbo watches, Thorin plants his heavy, booted feet upon white, white fur and pushes his hips into his hands with a short, low rumble of pleasure. He can see how good it feels, in the way that thick cock twitches and leaks, the way the long throat tightens with a dry, clicking swallow, the way his feet shift restlessly every few seconds against the fur skins. Like he needs more and wants to go faster but it just feels too good like this. Slow. Steady. Thumb rolling against his leaking slit, fingers tightening then loosening again. 

Bilbo presses his shoulder hard against the wall and bites at his fist in an effort to hide his ragged breathing. 

He understands Dwalin’s words now. This is Battle-Fever. Where he was filled with a nervous, jittery energy after their skirmish and subsequent flight, Thorin had been filled with something else. Something that made his blood run hot and cock thicken. Does it happen every time he swings his sword and cleaves an orc in two? When his heart rate speeds up and his weapon spills the blood of his enemies, does the excitement seep into his blood and make him ache with a different kind of excitement? Hidden under his armor and his tunic, had he run with his wonderfully thick cock full and pressing painfully against his clothes? The very thought makes Bilbo want to whimper aloud. 

But he can not make a single noise. 

He is silent because then he would miss the way Thorin’s breathing has begun to hitch. He will not interrupt the quickening pace of his hand, can not bear to end this. Clutching at the doorway with a hand white about the knuckles and the collar of his shirt now stuffed into his mouth, Bilbo wants to watch the ending. 

He needs to see it so bad, he thinks he might combust if he does not. 

Then Thorin’s head twists around, face illuminated in the moonlight and Bilbo finds himself sliding to the floor. He is helpless against the sudden force of his desire. 

The handsome face is tense with pleasure, dark, heavy eyebrows drawn sharply over closed eyelids, jaw clenched tightly against what is surely a moan. How very like Thorin, to bite off any sounds he makes before they escape. But Bilbo finds himself not missing them because Thorin’s expression more than makes up for it. No flapping gape-mouth or rolling eyes for this King. No, just intense concentration, pleasure in the twitch of his brow and lips parted over gritted teeth. Oh yes, it is a lovely expression indeed. 

So lovely, Bilbo almost misses how Thorin’s hand has slowly sped up. How his hips have begun to roll upwards into each downward stroke, thighs straining against the pull of half-lowered trousers. How an inky curl has stuck to one cheek, gleaming in the moonlight. Mostly, he would have missed just how beautiful Thorin is, every inch of him, every last hitching breath, every last twist of his fingers wringing out his pleasure, every last tiny dry, desperate swallow. 

And then.

And then Thorin abruptly stills, his hand tight around his cock, breath more of a ragged sob than a gasp. His back arches and his thighs shake and over his hand spills his completion. Bilbo watches his strong jaw work, as if he wants to cry out but cannot. For fear of being over heard or simply because the sound is drowned by the heat and rush of his orgasm. A flush spreads over the exposed skin of Thorin’s belly and floods up his neck. When he tosses his head, one of his braids slides down over his shoulder and pools by his neck. 

Bilbo watches it all with a hunger he never realized he could feel. Watches as the lovely Dwarf King falls apart. 

In the silence that follows, broken only by Thorin’s harsh breathing, Bilbo presses himself further into the shadows and just breathes. Now that the figure in the middle of the moonlit room is still, the urgent rush of his own desire has dimmed, though not left his blood. Disbelief and shame slowly begin to filter in. Looking in on such a private moment! What was he thinking?! Bilbo chews on his lip and blinks a few times. By dryness of his eyes, it has been some time since he has even blinked. What shames him the most, though, is the ache in his groin and the hot need that still pulses through his veins. No one could have remained unmoved, he thinks, presented with such primal beauty. He would challenge anyone to remain stoic seeing Thorin thus, but the thought of anyone else witnessing it made something rear up in his chest. Something hot and tight and ugly. 

Absently, he rubs at his chest and admires the way Thorin’s hair looks laid out on all that white fur. The broad chest has stopped heaving and rises and falls gently now, like the Dwarf has fallen asleep. His face is once again turned away so Bilbo cannot see if that is true but he doubts it. It would not be like Thorin to be caught so, trousers still unlaced and belly wet with cum and sweat. 

For some reason, the sight of Thorin basking in the afterglow is as erotic as watching him get there. 

The impulse to lick damp, bared skin clean sits heavy on the back of Bilbo’s tongue and makes his insides feel hollow. The ache low in his gut makes him restless and need is bright and heavy upon him. But he is afraid to move, lest he be discovered. More than that, though, is his need to flee. Thorin is already beginning to stir, free hand untangling from the fur skin, limbs shifting about as if he is ready to rise. Bilbo does not know what the reaction would be should he be discovered but the very notion makes him cringe in embarrassment. Goodness, what would he even say? 

Sure enough, Thorin takes a deep breath, which sounds very much like relief and before Bilbo can even move, the Dwarf is sitting up and putting himself back together. Trousers pulled up over lean hips and laced closed, that lovely thick cock tucked neatly away. Belly and hand cleaned with a discreet twitch of the underside of his tunic, which is then straightened with careless fingers. Dark hair shot through with silver hides most of his face for a moment, the hollows around his eyes too shadowed to see through. Bilbo is afraid of what he might see, though. The cloak of a king’s bearing that Thorin normally keeps wrapped tightly around his shoulders, cast away during this interlude, is slowly falling back into place. Thorin the Dwarf is disappearing back behind Thorin, son of Thrain, of the line of Durin and King of Erebor. A dispossessed King but King none-the-less. 

As he watches, arousal now a dull thrum hot under his skin, Thorin slides strong fingers through his thick, dark hair and his face is still again, a familiar stoic calm. He makes deft work of fixing the braids that fall heavily from his temples, unwinding them and quickly redoing them, neat once more. Strangely enough, the beauty has not left him. 

Or maybe it is the way Bilbo sees him now that is different. There is Thorin the King, yes, untouchable and proud but Thorin is still the same Dwarf that had been sprawled across the white fur skins, all darkness and naked sexual need. They are one and the same. 

It is not desire that makes Bilbo’s chest ache. At least, not the same lust that burned through him only moment ago. 

It is, he recognizes with a pang, the need to know both King and Dwarf.

To know Thorin in all of his forms. 

Shocked at himself, at the change this singular moment has wrought within him, Bilbo glances one last time at the figure in the odd round room. Thorn is standing, facing away from the door as he shrugs back into his coat, fur at the collar blending in with his dark hair. The soft sounds he makes as he dresses covers any whisper of sound from Bilbo’s escape, slinking back down the dark corridor to where the rest of the company has bunkered down for the night. All the while, his heart sits uncomfortably in his throat and his chest feels hollow. He wishes he could blame the feeling on missing dinner but he knows this is not the truth. There is no hunger in him for food, not this night. No, this hunger is different. This is a hunger he has never felt before and does not have a name for. 

Shaken, Bilbo goes to where he left his pack leaning against a rough wooden column and sets out his bedroll as silently as he can. Some of the Dwarves have already tucked themselves into their own blankets, great lumps in the darkness strewn across the straw. But Dwalin is still awake, talking quietly in the far corner with Gloin, Balin, and Gandalf. The way Dwalin’s eyes unerringly find Bilbo when he appears from the shadows makes him uncomfortable, heat stinging the tips of his ears. It’s a knowing look, tempered with a hint of amusement. Even so, he is allowed to slip into his bedroll without being questioned. 

It is little comfort. 

Heat still curls in his gut, the memory of watching Thorin Oakenshield arching into his own hand burned onto the back of his eyelids. He tries keeping his eyes open but it is of little help. Instead of seeing the side of a stable wall and the pile of straw in front of his face, he sees dark curls spread out over white fur. He sees a bared throat, a strong hand, gleaming skin. He sees beauty. The kind that he will never be able to forget, even when he is breathing his last breath. Huddling as deep into his blankets as they would allow, he tries to ignore the hardness between his legs and the guilt that clogs his throat. 

So caught up in the spinning swirl of desire and shame, Bilbo does not hear the soft step of a booted foot upon the straw behind him. When a heavy hand drops onto his shoulder, he nearly leaps out of his skin, breath whooshing from his mouth with a squeak. Heart leaping about in his throat, he tries to turn around to see who has grabbed him but the hand keeps him still, holding like steel and burning like a brand even through the blanket. 

Dark hair streaked with lines of silver tumbles over his face and neck, and he trembles. 

Thorin smells of the oil he puts in his hair, of leather and metal and earth. 

“You should practice your burglary skills, Master Baggins,” the voice in his ear is a deep rumble and it rolls through him like a storm. It is all Bilbo can do not to gasp aloud. The hand on his shoulder tightens, “Does a thief not takes what he wants? Next time, do not just linger by the door.” Something bright lights up inside of him, buried under shock and humiliation because he’d been caught after all. But the hand on his shoulder is not threatening and the voice holds no anger. Bilbo stares at the curls of hair on the blanket by his nose and wonders. Thorin knew he was there and isn’t angry. 

No, the only thing in his voice that Bilbo can hear is…invitation.

He holds his breath, eyes wide in the darkness, as Thorin chuckles softly in his ear (oh and isn’t that a sound he could listen to forever) and gives his shoulder one last squeeze. Then his heat and his smell and his lovely hair is gone, leaving Bilbo barely breathing and burning with a consuming internal fire. 

Oh. 

Oh dear. 

Thorin has joined Dwalin and the others now, their low voices masking his ragged exhale. Could it be? Surely Thorin could not mean what Bilbo thinks he means. But the words rattle in his head and he can not help but wonder what it would be like to breathe in that scent again, slide his fingers over the slope of strong thighs and flat stomach, drink in each hard earned gasp. 

Wrap all those thick, dark curls around his fingers and wrists so he might bury his face in them. 

Bilbo pulls the blankets over his head and swallows a wail of frustration. There is nothing to do about the throb of desire thudding through him now. Unable to sleep, he stares at the underside of his blanket for a long time with heat running like molten gold in his veins, cursing the day he ever laid eyes on Thorin Oakenshield. 

end


End file.
